The Devil & The Hunstman
by who is sabrina
Summary: A collection of one-shots, one for each line of the song "The Devil & The Huntsman" from the movie. Disclaimer: I don't own King Arthur. [Ch 2: What Does Ail My Lord? Arthur isn't well, but why should that stop him?]
1. Young Man Came From Hunting

**_"Young man came from hunting, faint, tired, and weary…"_**

The boy shoves through the last tangle of branches, and stumbles into the light of the glowing campfire. The men around it are all on their feet, watching him carefully. Doubtless, they had heard him coming, and were immediately on guard. And rightly so. Who knows what dangerous animals or violent criminals linger in these woods? The thought makes the boy shudder, and he is intensely grateful to be out of the dark and unforgiving woods.

But as the dangers of the forest fade behind him, an uneasiness grows at the view before him. The boy couldn't say what he had been expecting as he stumbled toward the campfire in the distance, but it certainly wasn't the sight of a group of armed, towering, _intimidating_ men. He looks around, and sees that one man is holding a bow, and has an arrow out of its quiver, ready to fire at a moment's notice. The others, at the very least, have their hands on the hilts of their swords, or have them half-drawn. Only one man looks unconcerned, and the boy's astonished gaze finally lands on him. He is standing there with an air of supreme nonchalance, hands on his hips but not touching his sheathed sword. His light eyes are studying the boy with an almost eerie intensity, but his lips are curved in a warm smile. And it's not the smile adults give to kids when they don't want them to be frightened. It's an actual smile, as if the boy stumbling into their campsite had been a pleasant surprise, rather than an irksome inconvenience. The boy takes all of this in slowly, because mostly, his mind is preoccupied with its frantic chanting of _The King, The King. Oh, God. It's the King._

After another moment or two, the boy realizes he is still staring at them all with his jaw slack in a combination of shock and awe that he can't quiet put a name to. He can practically hear his mother berating him, and he blushes a furious red while dropping awkwardly to his knees in front of the grinning blond.

"My King," he breathes, head bowed and eyes fixed on his muddied boots.

"Hey, there," the King responds immediately, and a hand descends into the boy's line of vision; the _King of Camelot_ is actually offering to help him up. "What's your name?" he asks him calmly. But the boy is so floored by this unexpected casualness that for a moment his own name escapes him. _Is it improper to accept help from a king?_ he wonders, regarding the man's dirty, calloused palm. _Or is it worse to deny his help?_ But then - _Oh, no_ \- he has taken too long to answer, and now the King is kneeling before _him_.

"You're not hurt, are you?" King Arthur asks.

"John," John blurts, remembering suddenly that he had been asked his name. The King's brow wrinkles in confusion, and behind him, one of the men laughs.

"Look how nervous he is," the man with the bow chuckles. "Can't even answer the questions straight." John is sure he has never been more embarrassed in his life, and he almost wishes he had run into a wild animal instead. But then he manages to meet the King's gaze, and although the man is laughing, it isn't mean or derogatory. It's simply a laugh; his eyes crinkle with it, just like John's older brother's. The sight gives John courage; Arthur _is_ the King, but he is also a _man_.

"My name is John, my lord. And no, I'm not hurt. Thank you, sire." This all comes out in a rush as he finally accepts the King's outstretched hand, and the blond pulls him to his feet with such effortless strength that John feels his feet lift off the forest floor.

"Where did you come from, John?" asks one of the men - _knights_ , John suddenly realizes. The boy's gaze sweeps up to the one who addressed him, a particularly frightening-looking knight with dark skin and an unfamiliar accent. The man studies him just as the King had, calculating and attentive.

"I was hunting with my father," John explains, glancing quickly up at them all. He notices that all of the knights are watching him like this - carefully. A couple of them continually turn to scan the surrounding darkness, and the one with the bow still has not put his arrow back. The King, however, has returned to his seat around the blazing fire. But the others remain standing, alert. _They think I could be part of a trap_ , John understands. It made sense for them to be so careful, especially since they were with the King, but John still didn't understand King Arthur's blatant lack of caution.

"Hunting with your father?" the knight prompts him, and John snaps back to attention.

"Yes, sir," he says. "It's our first hunting trip in this area, and we got separated and-" John cuts off suddenly. A lump has formed in his throat as the shock of finding King Arthur and his knights fades in the light of his hopeless situation. "I got lost," he grinds out finally. He blinks back tears and hopes that no one notices. When he can meet the knight's eyes again, he thinks they've softened, although it could be his imagination. But the knight with the bow places his arrow back in his quiver, and a couple of the men take their places around the fire beside the king. It's as good as telling him _We believe you_.

But now that John's been reminded of his problem, he can't chase away the images of all the horrible things that could have happened to his father. What if he had simply disappeared, never to be seen again? His heart is pounding so loudly that the boy barely hears King Arthur call his name.

"Come here," the King says, gesturing to a spot on the floor beside him. It's not an order, John notes; in fact, he has yet to hear the King give a single command. And yet there is some strange sort of power that hangs around him, a quiet compulsion that meant he didn't _need_ to give an order.

John sits beside the King and wonders if he's dreaming.

"See this fire?" King Arthur asks him, gesturing in front of them. John nods, and they all watch it for a minute - swirling smoke that melts into the night sky, red and orange sparks that meander away and then blink out into nothingness. "You found us because of this, didn't you?"

"Yes, my lord," John answers. He wouldn't soon forget the sheer relief that had coursed through his veins at the sight of the friendly warm glow in the distance.

"Well, there you have it," the King says with utter certainty. "Your father will come to it just like you did. And we'll be right here waiting for him."

John knows the mages have long since gone into hiding, but he can't help wondering whether King Arthur has some sort of magic. Because, despite everything, the warmth of hope ignites in John's chest, and he feels inexplicably calmer. Even as the night wears on, he worries less and laughs more, enthralled by the light-hearted banter and brotherhood between the king and his knights. They tell him stories of their exploits, and legends of Excalibur. The King unsheathes that very sword, and John swears the world stops in that instant. He traces shaking fingers along the etched runes in the blade, and shivers at the cold of the metal. It puts him in mind of light blue and ice and swirling winds. He thinks he knows why King Arthur is so nonchalant about his personal safety; he doubts whether any army could withstand the might of Excalibur.

And at the end of the night, when the flames are beginning to die down, there is rustling from the nearby trees. The King's grin says _I told you so_.


	2. What Does Ail My Lord?

**_"What does ail my lord, my dearie?"_**

Wet Stick rounds the corner, and misses colliding with Goosefat Bill by inches. They have arrived at the same door at the same time, and they stand there blinking at each other for a moment.

"What are you doing here?" Goosefat wonders. Wet Stick glances at the double doors before them, then back at Bill. Echoed hammering issues from under the doors as Wet Stick shrugs casually.

"Same as you, I expect." Together they contemplate the doors, and specifically the person they knew to be behind them. "Something's off with Arthur," Wet Stick notes concernedly. Bill nods, and pulls one of the heavy doors open, gesturing Wet Stick in.

"After you," he grins, bowing. Wet Stick shoves him as he passes through the doorway, and Arthur glances up at their quiet laughter. The two knights watch as their king sets down the hammer in his hand, picks up a nearby cloth, and begins to polish the styled wood of his beloved new project. His jaw is set, and his hand moves the cloth across the shining wood in strong, precise movements.

"I see you're hard at work on your precious wheel of cheese," Goosefat comments, pulling up a chair behind Arthur and sagging into it. Wet Stick grabs a chair of his own, places it beside Bill's, and then sets another chair pointedly at the back of Arthur's knees. The king ignores it.

"How are you doing, mate?" Wet Stick asks, settling into his seat beside Goosefat.

"Fine," Arthur answers shortly. He is polishing more vigorously now, trying to avoid conversation, but he is panting slightly with the effort. Wet Stick and Goosefat exchange glances.

"Do you need something?" Arthur asks them after a moment, still focusing his attention on the incomplete round table. His voice is slightly breathless, but neither of the knights call him out on it.

"Just wondering when you're gonna take a break," Wet Stick says instead, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs out in front of him. He and Bill are the image of rest and relaxation, but still Arthur doesn't turn around.

"Yeah, mate," Goosefat pipes up. "You're making _me_ tired." And before Arthur can argue, Bill kicks the chair in front of him hard; it hits the back of Arthur's knees and slides beneath him. The way Arthur collapses into it verges on alarming.

The king finally turns to glare at the two knights, but he doesn't stand up again, and that's _something_ , at least. This close, Wet Stick and Goosefat are struck by just how pale Arthur is. He is sweating slightly, and there is a heated flush to his face that leaves no doubt about his current state of health, or lack thereof.

"Go get some sleep," Wet Stick tells him flatly. It isn't a suggestion.

"Is that how you're gonna address your king?" Arthur asks him, fist clenching around the cloth he still held. Wet Stick sighs inwardly, all too familiar with Arthur's irritation. He knows his friend hates any attention to his own illnesses or injuries, and resents the patronization and vulnerability that come with it. But Wet Stick doesn't back down; Arthur isn't well, whether he admits it or not.

"No, that's how I'm gonna address my best mate." Wet Stick watches as Arthur opens his mouth, but Goosefat speaks first.

"You know what? Never mind," he says lightly. "Let him work." Wet Stick gapes at him, and Arthur looks suspicious. "He'll eventually pass out, and then we won't have to argue with him."

"Good idea!" Wet Stick nods enthusiastically. "Your choice, Arthur. Go get some rest of your own volition, or watch us follow you around all day until you pass out and we _drag_ you to your rooms." Arthur sighs, runs a hand through his hair.

"Fine," he relents. "You win." The king stands, his chair scraping against the stone floor, and then begins to head out of the room.

"We'll bring you some soup," Goosefat quips. The polish-coated cloth smacks him square in the face, and Wet Stick swears he hears a hoarse laugh as Arthur disappears around the corner.

 **…**

Later, Goosefat wonders how the day went so wrong so quickly. He wakes up in chains, in a small, dingy prison in some long-forgotten part of the castle. At least, he thinks it might be the castle, but things are a little fuzzy, and he wouldn't put any bets on the veracity of his jumbled thoughts. But, wherever he is, the other knights are there, too - also in chains. Bill blinks away the blurred edges of his vision and meets eyes with the others. They are all alive, at least, and seem to have no major injuries. Goosefat is just getting ready to ask if anyone actually knows what's going on, when the door flies open and a hooded man storms in. He slams the door behind him without touching it. _A mage_ , Goosefat notes.

The mage brings up a hand and pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. Then he crosses his arms and glares threateningly at the captured knights.

"Now that you're all here," he begins, conjuring a ball of fire in his hands, "will anyone tell me where the king is, or do I have to resort to other methods?"

"I know where he is," Bill says immediately. He fights to conceal the sudden surge of pride he feels when the other knights do not look alarmed or upset. They trust him as steadfastly as he trusts them. Goosefat smiles pleasantly as the mage approaches him. "He's hiding," Bill informs him conspiratorially. "In the king's secret safe room. It's underneath the west wing." Triumph flashes across the mage's face for the briefest of moments, before-

"You idiot," Wet Stick scoffs. "He isn't there. I definitely saw him heading to the docks."

"Yes, well, you've taken a knock to the head, haven't you?" Bill retorts.

"So have you!"

"You've both been knocked out, and are therefore unreliable," Bedivere joins in, as the mage begins to growl. "I know for a fact that the king ran into the forest."

"Shut up!" The mage shouts, slightly hysterical, as Bill and Wet Stick begin to argue back. They quiet down and watch the frowning mage, who takes a deep breath, and then speaks through clenched teeth. "Does anybody know where the king actually is?"

" _Yes!_ " all four knights respond vehemently. There is an instant uproar as each knight screams out their own location, and the mage ineffectually shouts for silence. With the noise and chaos, the mage doesn't notice the door behind him swing open slowly and soundlessly. He doesn't hear the slightly unsteady footsteps behind him, nor does he feel the extra pair of eyes watching him. But he _does_ take notice when Arthur puts both hands on Excalibur's hilt.

Instantly, the room's temperature plummets, and sheer power explodes outwards from where Arthur is standing. The knights are shoved back against the wall by the force of it. Dust rains from the ceiling and is swirled around the room in the unearthly windstorm. Goosefat's vision is obscured by the gray winds, but he can _feel_ Excalibur's power, and it makes chills run up his spine. The knights can see nothing, but they hear the metallic ringing of Arthur's sword, and then suddenly, there is silence.

The dust begins to settle, and Arthur is there, breathless and flushed, but standing nonetheless. The hostile mage, whether dead or unconscious, lies at the king's feet. As the scene settles, the chains keeping the knights against the wall fall out; the old wall is so blasted and degraded that the metallic chains come free of their own accord. Still vaguely shocked by the always-breathtaking display of Excalibur, and by the unexpected appearance of their sick king, the knights stumble forward a couple of steps, watching Arthur carefully. He is holding Excalibur loosely in one hand, and grinning at them all, half smug and half delirious with exhaustion.

"See? I told you I was fine," he laughs, and for the briefest of moments he sounds like his normal self and stands with his usual strength and assuredness. But then that moment passes; Excalibur slips from his grip, his eyelids flutter, and he sways dangerously. Goosefat Bill, nearest to Arthur, grabs him before he hits the floor.

"Yeah, we know," Goosefat assures him. "You're all right."


End file.
